“It’s on,” said Tariq.
Nearby sat a block of black polyethylene foam: four feet long, three feet wide, and ten inches in depth. After setting Samson in the center of the block, he drew an outline of the device and with an X-Acto knife carved out a depression into which Samson might snugly fit. Next, he reshaped the foam block until it matched the dimensions of the bottle. He was no Michelangelo, but with care, he achieved the desired specifications.
“Hold it still,” he said, laying the bottle on its side.
Dahlia held the neck of the bottle as Tariq slid the foam creation inside of it. It wasn’t a perfect fit, but it would do. He slid a few pieces of foam here and there until it was immobile. Using both hands, he picked up the bottle and shook it. Satisfied it was in place, he applied a coat of industrial glue and reattached the bottom, pressing the two pieces together as hard as he could for as long as he could.
He waited a few minutes, then set it upright. He examined the bottle from all sides, shining the light from his phone at it. No matter how he tried, he could not see inside the dark, opaque glass.
“I think we did it,” he said, admiring his achievement. “Can you see anything?”
Dahlia looked at the bottle from several angles. “It looks like a bottle of champagne.”
“An f-ing big one,” said Tariq, and they laughed. He kissed her, then slid a hand beneath her blouse, cupping her breast. “Proud of me?”
“Immensely,” said Dahlia, pressing herself against him.
He kissed her again. All this manual labor had him feeling like a working man. He took her hand and put it on him.
“Not here,” said Dahlia, recognizing at once his intentions.
“Yes here. It’s my vineyard. I can act how I please.”
He lifted her and set her on the table, spreading her legs. He unbuckled his pants and pulled them to his knees.
“Be quick,” said Dahlia, slipping off her panties.
He lifted himself on his tiptoes and touched her. Dahlia gasped.
At that moment, his phone rang. It was a ringtone reserved for one person. He looked at the screen. Not now. He gave Dahlia a look. Be quiet.
“Yes, Father.”
“Where is the champagne?” demanded the emir.
“What do you mean, ‘Where is the champagne?’ It’s here. At the vineyard.”
“We need it. Now.”
“I’m in Épernay,” said Tariq. “I’m picking it up myself.”
Dahlia slid herself onto him, both hands behind his back. If he wouldn’t thrust, she would do her best.
“When can you be back?”
“Two hours,” said Tariq.
“Pardon me,” said the emir. “I didn’t get that.”
“Two hours,” repeated Tariq, as Dahlia bit his ear. “Stop it.”
“What’s that?”
“No, I mean, why are you so concerned? We do not need it until tomorrow.”
“Your brother just phoned,” said the emir. “They are to make the announcement tonight.”
“What? Tonight?” The news hit Tariq like a blow to the stomach. He withdrew and turned away. “What happened to all the talking?”
